


Ghosts

by daydreamsonacloudyday



Series: Isabel Cousland [17]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3354620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydreamsonacloudyday/pseuds/daydreamsonacloudyday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabel reasurres Alistair that he’s doing a good job as king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts

"Your majesty, if you could please remain still," the painter urged, trying—and failing—to hide the frustration in his voice. Alistair stopped shifting in his seat, lips pursed as he concentrated on remaining still for the portrait. The painter hesitated for a long moment, as if he were just waiting for the king to start fidgeting again, before finally dipping his paintbrush into his paint to continue his work.

The brush had barely touched the canvas when Alistair sagged in his seat with a sigh. He shot the exasperated painter an apologetic look before standing up, uncomfortably rubbing the back of his neck.

"Can we take a little break?" he asked, unsure.

"Of course, my king," Isabel replied quickly, before the painter lost his nerve or Eamon could suggest they continue instead. Letting out a breath of relief, Alistair offered her a small smile before quickly leaving the room. Once she and Eamon smoothed things over with the painter she went after him, roaming the corridors of the palace until she found him.

He was sitting on the floor of a hall lined with portraits of past Fereldan rulers, his head resting back against the stone wall as he stared up at two portraits in particular—those of his father and brother. She could see his thoughts were racing, his brows furrowed as his mind wandered, eyes focused on the portraits before him.

Lifting up the skirt of her dress, she lowered herself to the floor, lightly brushing her fingers over his cheek as she sat beside him. She rested her head on his shoulder and they remained quiet for a moment, content to simply sit together, their arms and legs pressed together.

"Did you see the painter's expression when he first saw me?" Alistair murmured. "It was like he was looking at a  _ghost_."

Isabel lifted her head and met his gaze, sighing softly. "Maric was your father," she replied, gesturing to the portraits before them, "and Cailan your brother…"

" _Half_ -brother."

"Yes, half-brother… either way, you're related to the both of them. It's perfectly normal to look like your relatives."

"Not  _that_  much," he muttered, frowning as he glared at the portrait of his half-brother. "Cailan and I are practically twins." Before she could counter his statement, he turned his gaze on her and continued. "But it's not just that. When I was sitting there for the painter, I was thinking… people are comparing more than our looks. They're comparing my  _actions_  to his."

"Ali—"

"Don't try and convince me they don't," he said, shifting in his seat, his eyes falling to the floor. "I've heard the nobles whispering about it when they don't think I'm listening. I've barely been king for a month and I'm already doing it wrong."

"I wasn't going to try and convince you they don't compare you to Cailan," she replied, voice soft. "I've heard the whispers as well, and no one thinks you're doing it wrong." Alistair turned to face her, a slight pout on his lips as he furrowed one eyebrow, the other arched upwards in that exaggerated expression of his. Isabel huffed, biting back a smile at the look on his face before continuing. "Those who didn't want you on the throne in the first place are  _always_  going to think you're wrong, but everyone else… I think they're rather impressed so far."

"I don't know about that."

She released a deep breath, her eyes darting away before holding his gaze. "I don't know if you know this, but… many thought my father should have been king instead of Cailan. He was a powerful man, who was popular and well respected among the nobles, and Cailan…" She paused, sighing. "Cailan wasn't exactly the best king. If he hadn't had Anora doing all the work for him, I'm not sure he would have kept the throne—Maric's son, or not."

"I always thought everyone loved him," Alistair said quietly, brows drawn together in uncertainty.

"As an individual, yes," she replied. "He could be irritating at times, but he was generally well-liked. But as a king… he had a lot of work to do when it came to his role on the throne."

"Huh," he huffed, taking the information in and processing it. Flashing her a grin, he nudged her shoulder with his. "So, basically you're trying to tell me that you were almost a princess?"

Isabel snorted a laugh and rolled her eyes before growing serious again. "No, not exactly," she breathed, gently placing her hand on his cheek to keep his focus on her. "I'm trying to tell you not to worry about the nobles comparing you to Cailan. In your short reign, you have been a  _good_  king, and you're only going to get better at it. Anyone can see that you take this responsibility seriously, and that you're giving everything you can to this country." She offered him a small smile, her thumb stroking his cheek. "You're not your brother. You may look like him, but you're a different man than he was. And people will see that."

He sighed, placing his hand over hers on his cheek. "You really think I'm a good king?"

" _Alistair_ ," she snapped, pulling her hand back and shooting him a glare.

"I'm just making sure!"

"Yes, I do! How many more times do I have to make it clear to you?"

"Well, how am I supposed to know you're not just… blinded by love?"

" _Alistair_."

"Okay, okay, I get it, I'm a good king," he said with a chuckle, his hands up in a defensive position. Isabel continued to glare at him, until he turned his puppy-dog eyes on her and she couldn't resist smiling at him. "You are going to have to remind me of how he and I don't look exactly alike, though," he continued, gesturing to the portrait of Cailan. "Because from where I'm sitting, we look very much alike."

"If you insist," she replied a hint of jest in her voice. Turning her attention to the portrait, she studied Cailan's face, the image bringing back some of the fonder memories she had of the man, remembering him alive and well, not just a still, motionless painting hanging on a wall. When she looked back at Alistair, he was watching her, his eyes on hers, and she could see the differences as plain as day.

"It's your eyes," she started, staring right into those pools of amber. "You must have gotten your mother's eyes, because they're nothing like Cailan's or your father's. They're beautiful, almost golden if the right light hits them… I could spend an entire day staring into them."

"Just a day?" he asked, a lopsided grin on his lips.

"You know what I mean," she replied with a huff.

Alistair chuckled. "I do, and it was very poetic, love."

"Oh don't start. I'm a lot better at being poetic than you are."

"I never said you weren't."

Isabel shot him a wry smile and he just grinned at her. "As I was saying," she continued, her eyes drawn to his mouth, "your lips are also much more kissable than Cailan's."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, I would know. And your nose is nicer than his."

"We have the same nose," he pointed out, and she snorted a laugh.

"You're not wrong, but it suits your face better."

"But we have the same  _face_."

Isabel quirked an eyebrow at him and bit back a smile. "I'm sorry, did I not just point out the numerous differences between your faces?"

"But—"

"I know  _exactly_  what I'm talking about," she said, punctuating her point with a quick peck on the tip of his nose. She went to pull back but he stopped her, his hand cradling her head as he pulled her in for another kiss, his lips brushing over hers. Quickly recovering from the slight shock, she closed her eyes and kissed him back, her fingers finding their way to his collar, her hand fisting in his shirt as she pulled him closer. "Do you still need more convincing?" she asked when they pulled apart.

Alistair laughed, shaking his head as he stared at her. "I think you've made your point very clear."

"Good." She planted one last kiss to his lips before pulling away from him and standing up, smoothing out the skirt of her dress. He stood up with her, dusting himself off before smiling at her. "So, are you ready to continue with your portrait?"

The smile fell from his face, his shoulders slumping forward as she reminded him what they had been hiding from in the first place. "I don't want to sit in that chair anymore," he whined.

"It's no different than sitting in your throne."

"Yes, it  _is_. I don't have to sit completely  _still_  on my throne."

Isabel sighed and shook her head. "Would it help if I distract you? I can read to you—that book of policies you've been studying. Two birds, one stone."

"You would do that?" he asked, perking up at the possibility she offered.

Smiling softly, she laced her fingers with his, giving his hand a light squeeze. "Of course."

He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead before beaming at her. "Then let's get back before that painter tries to kill me."

With a laugh, they were off, leaving the old portraits behind them.


End file.
